


His Aim was True

by Spn_kink_sock



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alpha Castiel (Supernatural), Alpha Castiel/Omega Dean Winchester, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Western, Angst with a Happy Ending, Horse Impala (Supernatural), M/M, Omega Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Slow Romance, Western, inspired by old movies, no sex yet
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-26
Packaged: 2021-03-27 01:28:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30115062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spn_kink_sock/pseuds/Spn_kink_sock
Summary: When John Winchester is shot down on the streets of Fort Smith, Dean knows he has only one option- chase down the murderer and see him brought to justice. He’s just sixteen though, and an Omega, so people think he’s a helpless dainty flower. Dean enlists the aid of the toughest Marshal operating out of Fort Smith- Castiel Novak, to ride out into the Territories, a place outside of US law.Everyone, including the Marshal, thinks it’s too dangerous for Dean to head out on this quest, but Dean can protect his own safety and his virtue. Too bad he didn’t realize until it was too late that he should have protected his heart at well.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Meg Masters
Comments: 25
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If it seems like I stole almost every major plot point of this story from the book/movie True Grit, that would be because I totally did. 
> 
> Note- there will just the slightest bit of Meg/Castiel in this story, but end game is absolutely Dean/Castiel. Also, there’s going to be a lot of story at first and not a lot of smut. I’m not even kidding about the ‘slow burn’ tag.

The steam boat no longer ran up and down the river, not for years, already outdated by the railroad the last time Dean Winchester had taken it up river to Fort Smith, then by the automobile. Dean looked to his right, where he’d parked his black Model T Roadster, a folly of his middle age. There were some who said he cared more for that car than for anything, more than he would have cared for a child or a mate. Perhaps that might be true. There were some that called him unnatural because he’d never mated, he was a virgin spinster. Unwed and never blessed with children. Sam and Eileen had plenty enough youngins around. No need for him to contribute any. He could focus on running the family business.

He looked up the river, to where it would eventually meander, taking the slow route, to Fort Smith. Sam walked up and stood beside him. Sam, his younger Alpha brother, who knew only a small part of the story but had never questioned that Dean was a spinster nor had forced him into a mating, though, as family Alpha, he could have. Sam understood though, that while Sam was the Alpha, it was Dean who ran the family business, who had made the Winchester ranch the most profitable around. Sam would always look up to his older brother, even now that they were both middle aged men. 

Sam held out a newspaper in his hand, folded to a quarter section. Dean had never held with reading the newspaper other than a cursory glance in to the section with the agricultural prices, perhaps a look through the business section and a scan of the front page. He had a ranch to run and business to get on with, no time for fripperies like the human interest stories or editorializing. 

Dean glanced at it, “Wild West Show,” it advertised in big, showy letters at the top. It promised “Genuine rough riders. An Immense Spectacle, Hundreds of Cowboys, Horses and Show Riders.”

He was about to push it back to Sam as wasteful nonsense, when his eye caught the reason Sam must have brought it to him.

“The Incomparable Trick Shooting of Castiel Novak, toughest U.S. Marshal ever to ride the territories.”

“You should go find him,” Sam said. 

“You think I couldn’t have found him before now if I’d wanted to, Sam?” Dean said, dropping the newspaper off the bridge and down to the river. It floated down stream, disappearing under the bridge quickly. 

He turned away, but he remembered. 

***

He’d been sixteen the day the telegram came down from Fort Smith that his father was dead. He was Omega, true, but he’d been his father’s most trusted hand, he kept all the books for the ranch, able to figure and write better than his father by twelve, and still able to handle horses and cattle, despite being Omega. He knew the value of a good horse and head of beef. 

His next oldest sibling, his father’s first Alpha Son, Sam, was only twelve and in school, not much good on the ranch yet other than a few basic chores. He was small for his age for all that he was Alpha and more given to book learning than practical learning. There was talk of clerking him out to a lawyer when it came time, so he could learn the law trade. 

His mother, Mary, was tough in her way, as all frontier women were, but she had young children and no head for worldly matters. She couldn’t go up to Fort Smith, being prostrate with grief at her husband’s death and hardly up to keeping the ranch and children cared for. 

So Dean, despite being an Omega when most thought that Omegas should stay at home and look to nothing but getting mated, set out for Fort Smith on the river boat, to reclaim John Winchester’s body. He wrapped his father’s old Colt revolver in a sugar bag and shoved the sugar bag in his satchel along with his few changes of clothes and just enough money to get by. The weapon was long, bulky and weighed heavily in his hands, but he knew he would need it where he was going. 

His father had gone up to Fort Smith to sell a string of ponies bought in the spring and broken in and fattened up during the summer, with Azazel, their ranch hand, a recent hire. He was a man with an evil and dumb look to him, so Dean had taken an instant dislike to the man when he’d come around in the spring, looking for work, but John Winchester had disliked leaning on Dean so much for the hard physical labor and there weren’t many others looking for ranch work. It was hard, long hours and didn’t pay well. He hired what he could get and made sure the man stayed away from his family, especially from Dean. 

Yet, somehow Azazel was always brushing up against Dean’s posterior when he was around, somehow always found an excuse to talk to close and long with Dean, to touch him on the shoulder. Nothing that you could truly take offense with. So, Dean knew long before he had it confirmed by the Sheriff that it was Azazel that had shot John Winchester, right in the streets of Fort Smith, with witnesses. He learned from the Sheriff that no one had done a damn thing when the man stole one of the John’s horses and rode right on out of town. 

People thought he’d rode on out to the territories, where the only American law was carried in by the Marshals and where a man might disappear for years, unless he was drug out by the Marshals. 

Dean Winchester meant to follow Azazel and bring him back to Fort Smith for justice. He meant to see Azazel hung by the neck until he was dead. 

He’d brought Bobby with him on the riverboat, their other ranch hand. Bobby had been with them for years, taught Dean more about riding, about ranch management, about horses than his father ever had. John Winchester was a proud, stiff man, and ashamed, Dean sometimes thought, that he had to rely on an Omega son to run the ranch with him. Bobby had no such qualms about teaching an Omega the rough work. Dean was needed more where he was than Mary would have needed him in the kitchen with her. 

The day was warm as the boat steamed up the river, though the trees were fading to gold, one last burst of summer. Winter would be coming soon enough. Dean stood on the deck, watching the brown river water churn to white foam as the boat’s wheel turned. It would have been faster to take the train, but Dean hated the train, the dirty smoke, the clank of metal on tracks, the unnerving sensation of hurtling faster than man was meant to go. His choice, he would have ridden to Fort Smith, but every day he wasted getting there was another day Azazel had to ride further in the the territories and away from his impending date with the judge and hangman. 

Before long, the trees shading the river thinned and they were coming to a town. Fort Smith was a blot on the prairie, nestled into a curve on the east bank of the river, most houses a ramshackle wood faded to gray from sun and wind. The only stone building the town had so far was the Courthouse. It was the county courthouse, but more importantly, it was where the circuit rider from the Federal court stopped and heard cases, where the Marshalls brought the lawless back to serve their sentences. 

It took a little time to track down the traces of John Winchester. The Sheriff was out, the jail all but empty except for the criminals in their cells and a sleepy deputy who knew little to nothing. Finally, they tracked down the information that Winchester’s body was waiting to be claimed at the funeral home. There was only the one in town, so it wasn’t hard. 

The proprietress was a woman named Billie, dark skinned, curly of hair and very unamused that John Winchester had been sitting in her care so long without any one to claim him and without any fees or other arrangements paid for. Ice was in short supply and though she’d embalmed the man, there was only so much she could do to stop the rot. The reek of death saturated the place lurking under the stench of her preserving chemicals.

“I came to claim him as soon I heard,” Dean said to her. “I set out the same day. I want to see him now.”

“No, you don’t,” Billie said. “A sweet little Omega like you is liable to faint. Death is never pretty, but death after a long warm spell like we’ve been having is downright ugly.”

“I’m nobody’s sweet little Omega,” Dean said, setting his jaw firmly. “Now, show me my father. I’m liable to get unhappy if I have the wrong body hauled back home to bury.”


	2. Chapter 2

“Dean, you don’t have to, son,” Bobby said. 

“I do, Bobby,” Dean said as they reached the canvas draped form, which was an unnaturally still, human shaped lump on a narrow table. Billie pulled back the cloth revealing John Winchester, definitely still recognizable. The undertaker was skilled at her work and only the unnatural stillness revealed him as a dead man, not a sleeping one. Even this close, the stench of death was well disguised. 

“Take him home to Mom, Bobby,” Dean said, touching his father one last time on his cold hand. He felt a single tear flow down his face but he could not spare the time now to let himself break down. Mourning would come later. “Bury him in the family plot.”

Dean pulled his money pouch out, counted out several bills and handed them to Billie. “Is that enough to get him ready to ship home?”

She glanced at the pile of money. “Close enough,” she said and Dean knew that he’d given her far too much from her tone, but for once, he didn't care about saving his pennies. He wanted his Dad taken care of right and laid to rest at home. 

“Is it true, what they said in the telegraph? That our hired man was the one that did this”

“The man was throwing away money left and right in a poker game, about to start a fight with the man relieving him of it. Your pa tried to break it up, get your hired man to call it a night. Half a dozen witnesses saw them exchange words in front of the saloon. Azazel pulled a revolver, shot your Pa point blank in the chest and stole something from his pocket. That’s what the witnesses say.”

That would have to be the money from the sale of the ponies. His father planned on a tidy profit from them. It was reason enough for a faithless, no-count, coward like Azazel to commit murder. Lust for money was the root of all evil, they said. Well, when they weren’t saying that the temptations of Omega flesh were the root of all evil. Perhaps he’d planned to rob John all along and the confrontation after the poker game was just the opportunity presenting itself.

After that, Dean left Bobby behind to make the rest of the arrangements to bring Dad home and made his way back to the county lock up. This time, the Sheriff was there. Jody Mills was her name and while she wasn’t unkind, she had no encouragement for him. Not that he had been expecting to hear any different. 

“He lit out for the Territories,” she said. She stood tall, looked like she shot as straight as she talked. Her dark eyes shone as bright as the polished gold badge on her chest. “My law ends at the river. Across the river, it’s not even the United States. I have no authority there. The only ones with any remit to retrieve criminals from the territories are the Marshals and good luck getting one to chase after Azazel without any promise of a reward.”

“There’s a reward,” Dean said, confidently. He knew exactly how much could be spared from the family coffers and it would be worth every penny if he could exact justice on the man that killed his father. “What I need you to tell me is which marshal do I send? Who’s the toughest? I need to find a marshal with true grit.”

She closed her mouth and eyes for a moment, thought hard. She opened eyes, grabbed her dark brown felt hat off her desk and settled it over her short, graying hair. She then said, “I’ll escort you to the court house. There’s only one man you want. Castiel Novak. He’s testifying today at the trial of a murderer they call Belphegor.”

“I can go myself, Sheriff,” Dean said. “I know the way. The fine streets of this town are well policed by your deputies.”

“An Omega doesn’t walk into the court by himself, son,” Sheriff Mills said. “Not unless he’s a young man of negotiable affections.”

Dean could feel himself flush, though he wasn’t sure if were anger or shame. He knew he was forward for an Omega and there were those who considered him unnatural, but he always trod the path of righteousness. His body was virgin and pure. He intended to keep it that way, knowing that mating or marriage was not for him. He had obligations and duties to his family that came first before any wants of his own.

“Fine,” Dean said, curtly, setting his own hat back on his head. He’d been holding it in his hands the whole time. It was nonsense, but propriety was propriety in town. “Lead the way.”

They arrived just in time to see the criminal pronounced guilty by the judge. This Belphegor was a young Alpha, almost blond hair smoothed down and brushed from his face. He wore dark smoked glasses that hid his eyes. As he stood before the bench in shackles, he seemed far too young and innocent looking to be any kind of murderer. Then he smirked as the judge spoke. It somehow was clear as day that he was guilty of the crimes he had been accused of. 

“You have been tried and found guilty of the crimes of horse thievery, mail fraud and seven counts of murder,” the judge said. “You are nearby sentenced to hang by the neck until you are dead and may God have mercy on your soul. Have you anything to say before I remand you to the hangman.”

“Blah, blah, blah, such a talker,” the guilty man said. “Can we get this over with? I’m not sorry. If I had a chance, I’d do it all over again exactly the same.”

The judge rapped his gavel down hard on his desk, then nodded. A couple of burly bailiffs appeared to drag the miscreant away and then court was over for the day. The crowd, their amusement now over, began shuffling out of the room.


	3. Chapter 3

When the man put his white hat on and turned to walk out, Dean knew it was Marshal Novak, the one Sheriff Mills had told him about. He wore a long, light brown duster over a black suit, his badge shining bright silver on his chest. It was a circle around a five pointed star, on top of the star was the United States eagle, bearing the arrows and the olive branch. His eyes were bright blue, like lightening. His face was stern, almost angry. He frowned as if it were habitual and he looked like it had been a good two days since he shaved his thick beard. Despite the earthy touches like the stubble, there was something almost unworldly about the man. His eyes were a startlingly sapphire blue, like pools of water on sunny days. Dean just wanted to dive right into them. When he got closer to Dean, the Marshal’s nostrils flared a little and he took in a deep breath, as if the better get the scent of Dean.

In turn, the Marshal smelled like the most amazing thing Dean had ever smelled. Like the earth after a much needed rain, like the familiar, sweet scent of home, like everything Dean had ever thought he never wanted but knew instantly was everything he’d ever needed. This was an Alpha with grit, one strong enough to be what Dean needed in a mate. It brought up a longing and an ache like Dean had never felt before. He felt the urge to walk right up to the man and press his lips to the other man’s, to offer him everything. 

And he quashed it down harder than anything he’d ever felt before, because he had business with this Marshal and business and mating could never mix. With his father dead, Dean was now the man of the family, Omega or not. He had his father to avenge and justice to be found. When that was done, he had his family to look out for. The mated life would never be for him. 

“Sheriff Mills,” the Marshal said, nodding his head, doffing his hat just the right amount. 

“Marshal, this is Dean Winchester, John Winchester’s son,” Sheriff Mills said. 

“That unfortunate man who was murdered in front of the saloon?”

“The same,” Mills said. She left them, the introduction made and went up to talk to Judge Turner. Marshal Novak walked out of the courthouse, Dean followed him to the bright heat of the autumn afternoon. 

“I hear tell you’re the toughest Marshal in this state,” Dean said as they approached the hitching post where a few stray horses waited, among them, a big pinto stallion. “I’m looking for a Marshal to help me track down the coward that shot my father out of the territories, bring him back here to hang like that reprobate that’s hanging tomorrow morning.”

“It’s been some days since he fled. He may well be deep in the territories and out of reach of the Marshals by now,” Novak said. His voice was deep and rumbly, like thunder off in the distance. It spoke to something deep inside Dean, made it yearn and want. 

“I have a reward of a thousand dollars to the man that sees him hanged,” Dean said fiercely. 

Novak nodded, then said, his voice even deeper, “I’m your huckleberry.”

Dean just about went weak in the knees at that sound. His voice was like honey and smoke. It seemed to right through Dean’s ears directly down his spine to parts below. Dean flushed a little because he could smell the scent of his own slick rising up from him, his arousal obvious to all the but the scent blind. There were things an Omega couldn’t help, but it was all so pointless and embarrassing. The Marshal was as delicious an Alpha as Dean had ever come across, that was true, but Dean would never surrender himself to an Alpha, not even just for a single night. He had obligations. Important ones. 

They stared at each other a moment. They stared until the point where it was uncomfortable, like Novak’s blue eyes were boring wells down deep into Dean’s soul. The man didn’t even seem to blink. Then Dean held out his hand. “We have a deal then? Be ready to ride. We’ll leave first light.”

The Marshal’s left eyebrow arched high. “We are not going anywhere at first light. I ride alone. I will not endanger an Omega by taking him into the Territories.”

“Then we don’t have a deal,” Dean said. His arousal was instantly replaced by fury. “You misunderstand me. I’m riding out to find this coward. You’re along to see it’s all done legal like. I’d rather see him hung by the neck by a court, but if need be, I’ll ride out on my own and bury the man in the territories.”

“You cannot understand what you’d face,” Novak said. “The Territories is no place for an Omega. The protections of American law do not exist once the river is crossed.”

“I’ll take my chances. I can protect myself. American law is not quite the protection you imagine it is, Alpha,” Dean said. He knew that if an Alpha decided to take advantage of an Omega, no law would stop it. Dean would far rather rely on his father’s Colt than force of law. “I won’t hold you back and I can watch out for myself.”

“I doubt that,” Novak said, reaching to untie his Pinto. The horse was tough looking, big boned but wiry, as if built for long rides, but it had a gentle eye and a soft look to his mouth. It was a horse Dean liked the look of, would have bought it for the ranch if he could. The Marshal asked, “I see no horse. How are you going to ride out, if you have no horse?”

“I got a horse in mind,” Dean said. He couldn’t count on it, but he knew the livery that Dad was planning on selling those ponies to. Like as not, they’d still be there, not yet sold off. There was a particular horse Dean had in mind, one he’d taken a shine to. She was a sound, lively mare, rugged and sturdy, bigger than a pony, would have been. She would have been perfect to train up as a stock horse for Dean if Dad could have been convinced to keep her on. He somehow knew Impala would be waiting for him at livery with her shiny black coat and indomitable spirit. She would take him out to the territories and back.

“Riding in the Territories is rough. You won’t be able to ride sidesaddle.”

“Sidesaddle? You think I ride sidesaddle?” Dean asked, instantly furious at the presumption. There was a nonsense that many believed that it took an Omega’s virginity to ride astride a horse or that it was indecent or something to see an Omega with his legs spread like that. That riding a horse was like getting ridden in other ways.

Dean darted his hands out, grabbed the reins of the placid stallion right out of the Marshal’s hands and was mounted before the Marshal could protest. He was right. This was a good horse, took direction well, with just the prompts of his knees. Dean didn’t ride away but had the horse dance left and right, just out of the reach of the Alpha, putting the Alpha to a merry little chase for several minutes, putting the horse through his paces, trotting a box around the Marshal, who eventually grabbed the hat off his own head and threw it to the dusty ground, seemed likely to kick it or stomp on it, so Dean halted the pinto, hopped to the ground and handed the reins back to Marshal Novak.

“I’ve been riding since before I could walk, Marshal,” Dean said as the man retrieved his dusty hat and clapped it on his head. “And any Omega who rides to do work ain’t riding sidesaddle.”

“Alphas and Omegas do not ride out together,” Novak said, his voice still angry. “There will be talk. I would not have your virtue tarnished.”

“Must think an awful lot of yourself if you think the mere presence of you in my company is enough to tarnish my virtue. Don’t mistake reputation for virtue,” Dean said. He cared little about his reputation and his virtue had always done a damn fine job looking out for itself. Honestly, he could care less about virtue. Not wanting to attach himself to an Alpha had nothing to do with virtue in his case, but about what an Alpha thought that kind of connection meant. 

“They are synonymous in the minds of most Omegas,” Novak said. “Riding out in my company would ruin your chances of mating.”

“I’m not most Omegas and I’m not worried about ruining myself for other Alphas. Mating and a family is not in my cards.”

“You’ve ridden the range before? Trick riding’s all fine and well, but full days in the saddle on a hard ride have brought full grown Alpha men to their knees, much less an Omega child like yourself.”

“I’m not a child and haven’t been for as long as I can remember. Every year, I help my Dad move hundreds of head to cattle from Yell County to the yards in Kansas City,” Dean said, defensively. If his Dad had just let him ride on this trip up to Fort Smith instead of taking Azazel, they would both be home already. Of course, that would have left the man at home with Mom, Sammy and the other kids. Perhaps John Winchester had had some idea of the hand’s faithlessness and thought it would be better to keep him close.

“At dawn then. Meet me at the ferry landing. Come prepared. If I hunt this hired man of yours, I won’t be held back, not even by the Omega that’s paying the reward. And you’ll pay my expenses regardless if we catch the man or not,” Novak said. He stepped up into the stirrup of his horse, swung his other leg up and over and was seated in the saddle in one smooth motion. He trotted away. His seat on the Pinto was easy, graceful even. He was a fine rider on a fine horse and Dean enjoyed the sight of the man’s retreat until the dust from the dirt roads obscured the view completely.


	4. Chapter 4

Then Dean walked away himself. He had preparations to make. Before long, he found himself at Crowley’s livery stable. Crowley, the self styled ‘king of horse traders,’ was trying to cheat Dean blind, demanding ten times what Impala was worth.

True, she was a spirited, lovely horse, but he was asking the price for a thoroughbred racer. Dean knew her worth, but she wasn’t a mare with papers or breeding. He was obviously being taken for some kind of yokel or other fool. Crowley was a little stump of a man, tending to a red face when he argued. Dad had always called the man “the Limey” for his accent, but at the moment, Dean just wanted to call him the asshole. 

Finally he said, “My father John Winchester would have sold you that horse for fifteen dollars. That’s what he was planning on. She’s worth twenty-two, maybe, but we understand you stock merchants have to make a profit. I’ll pay you twenty, cash. You know and I know that if you do convince some poor sucker to pay the two hundred you just asked for, that would be highway robbery.”

Crowley squinted at Dean, as if trying to puzzle him out. “John Winchester’s son? The unnatural Omega?”

“The same,” Dean said. “I’ll also want to see a record of your last transaction with my father so I can see how much Azazel stole off my father.”

“That’s confidential financial records,” Crowley said. “I don’t need to reveal them to just any trumped up Omega who thinks he can wander in off the streets. Why aren’t you at home, like a proper Omega?”

“Because I’m here instead,” Dean said, yearning to punch the man, reining himself in only because he was still hoping to keep this civil like. “Do I need to go get Sheriff Mills and have her explain to you why I need a copy of the receipt for the money you paid to my father? Also, you may want to keep in mind that my father may be dead, but Winchester Acres is a going concern and you’ll be dealing with me now.”

“An Omega is going to run Winchester Acres?” 

Crowley seemed not just dismissive, but as if he thought the idea was outright preposterous. 

“My father said he made me heir to the land and made me promise to take care of Sammy, my mother, and the little ones,” Dean said, though his father had said that years ago. He actually had no idea if the land had been left to him. At the time, Sammy had been hardly more than a toddling baby still in his nursery dresses. John Winchester might well have changed his will along with his attitudes and left it all to his oldest Alpha son, now that it was clear Sammy might survive childhood. 

Just to stick it to this Crowley, Dean added, “I’m thinking that though its convenient to run our horses just up to Fort Smith, there’s plenty of livery places in Kansas City that would take a string of ponies when we drive the cattle up for sale.”

Apoplexy. That was the only explanation for how red in the face Crowley became, he spluttered a moment, but he also knew what John Winchester knew, that the best of his stock came from Winchester Acres and to lose their business meant he’d have little else worth much to sell or hire out.

“Very well, I’ll have your copy of the receipt duplicated by this morning. Twenty-five for the black mare, no less. I paid your father twenty for her. She’s a fine beast and I do need to cover my costs.”

“Twenty one,” Dean countered. “You’ve hardly had her a week, grazed her in the paddock, nothing more. I know your reputation, Crowley. You never paid for a bag of oats you didn’t have to.”

“Twenty four,” Crowley countered, “There’s wear and tear on the paddock. She nearly took a finger off my hired man when he brought her in for the night last evening.”

“She’s spirited,” Dean agreed. It wasn’t long before they finally came to a deal at twenty-two and a half. After he’d tossed Crowley a twenty dollar gold piece and a couple of dollar silver coins, Dean asked about tack. He wished he could have brought his own saddle with him, but if wishes were horses, beggars would ride. He poked through Crowley’s inferior inventory but eventually came up with a kit that would do well enough and tossed him another five, plus some change to cover the cost of boarding her for the night in Crowley’s best stall, planning on spending the night in the stall with her rather than seeing of the town boarding house would take an unaccompanied Omega. 

Dean concluded his business and sought out Impala in the paddock. She was looking a little worse for the wear, a little thinner. Life at Crowley’s livery was hard on a horse. The grazing in his paddock not sufficient for all his horses, truly. But her coat was still sleek and shining, her mane and tail not tangled. Still, he spent the time to curry her and brush her tail out. She knickered softly at him as he worked on her coat, apparently happy to see him again. Then he braided her mane, to keep it neat and tidy on the trail. He checked each hoof carefully, for stones or soreness and found that she was sound and ready. It would be a hard ride in front of him. He knew she had it in her, but she hadn’t been tried or tested yet. He made sure she was given all the good hay she could eat, supplemented with some oats. Only then did he seek the mercantile and equip himself for the ride ahead of him. 

He slept the night with Impala in her stall, his saddle bags packed and ready to go. At the first glimmer of light, he was up and moving, throwing the saddle on her, cinching it tight. It was just a few minutes work and he was saddled up and ready to go, trotting to the river docks. 

The sky was full pink before the Marshall rode up, face set hard and no cleaner shaven than he’d been the day before. The big pinto had saddle bags and a bedroll tied behind the saddle. In addition to the pearl handled guns worn on his hips, just visible under his duster, there was a rifle in a long sheathe strapped to the horse’s back, also, another gun, maybe a short shotgun, up by the horn of the saddle.

“Is it customary for Omegas to wear a blanket now? I am not familiar with the current fashions,” he said, looking Dean up and down, seeming both curious and disapproving. 

“It’s a serape, and it’s practical,” Dean said. With winter days fast approaching, this unseasonable warmth would not last. The mornings were already colder and their breath and the horses’ was already fogging up into white puffs. The Marshal would be jealous when he realized Dean automatically had another layer to his bedroll. 

“Mmm,” the Alpha said, then closed his mouth for a moment. The first ferry of the day was pulling up to the short pier. Before it docked, Novak said, “I asked around. Word is, Azazel’s joined up with a man they call Lucifer, runs with a gang called the Devils. There’s an outstanding writ for Lucifer and several of his men. You will not get in my way as I execute that writ. I will retrieve your Azazel only if it does not interfere with my duty as an Officer of the United States Government. Do you understand?”

“Is the United States Government paying you a reward?” Dean asked. A thousand dollars was more than many working men ever saw put together at once. “Because I’m the one paying you.”

“It is my duty. I don’t think it is a duty incompatible with your reward offer, but my duty comes first,” Novak said. The ferry pulled up to the dock and Novak directed his horse on first, then spoke to the ferryman, “Pull away. The Omega is not riding with us. He is a minor and he is an unaccompanied Omega.”

“You can’t do that,” Dean protested. 

“Ain’t taking no Omega over to the Territories on his own,” the Ferry man said. 

The son of a bitch did it. He dropped the ferry gate and poled his ferry away from the dock before Dean had a chance to get on. He watched as the boat disappeared quickly into the mist that was rising off the river in the early morning. He was not getting ditched. That no good, stick up his ass Alpha couldn’t do this to Dean Winchester.


	5. Chapter 5

As it happened, Dean knew this river. He’d been coming north with his father as soon as he could make the ride. Just north of town, the channel was shallower for a while, especially in the fall, when it hadn’t rained in a while. He kicked Impala lightly in the belly with his heels, worked her into a good run and headed to where he knew the river could be forded, just a ways upriver. She didn’t hesitate as her fetlocks touched water. She just drove forward until the water was up over her knees, then touching her belly. Then her feet had left the pebbled riverbed and she was swimming hard, neck bent, breathing heavy and straining. Dean was wet up nearly to his hips and luckily he thought to pull the Colt off his hip, to keep it dry. 

The sky brightened as Dean urged her forward. The wind was silent for now and it river was deceptively placid and warm, not babbling, tumbling cold waters from the mountains here, but warmed and calmed by its journey over the plains. Soon, the trees on the other side came into view, just smudges of green at first, then clearer and clearer, until he could see how one willow wept down to touch the water. The current pushed them downstream and they made the far bank not far from the ferry landing on the other side, water streaming in big rivulets off them both. She danced a little nervously, all shook up from her swim. Just as Dean thought, there was grit in that horse and more than a little fight. 

Novak had just debarked from the ferry and he seemed furious to catch sight of Dean and Impala, climbing up the riverbank. He turned though and set his big Pinto down the trail at a fast canter. Dean put the Colt back where it belonged on his hip and took off after the Marshal. He followed, giving Impala her head. She seemed to understand that her mission was to keep up with the Pinto stallion and though the other horse was bigger than her, longer legged and able to cover more ground with each step, Impala had heart and stamina. It felt good to be back on a horse, boots in the stirrups, feeling Impala’s body move and follow under his, working with each stride she made. As he’d told Novak, he’d been riding for as long as he could remember and it felt as natural as walking. He grinned, feeling oddly happy. It was a good feeling, letting a horse have her head like this. 

He enjoyed the view too. Novak was a good rider, had a natural, easy seat. For all of his stiffness when talking, none of it came out in his movement. His broad shoulders and back were a sight to see. His body was limber and supple, his movement with the horse easy. Dean had priorities far above and beyond finding an Alpha mate, but that didn’t mean he might not take a moment or two to enjoy the sight of one when it was in front of him. This must piss off the man though. It was the natural instinct of an Alpha to chase an Omega and here it was, the other way around. Worse, the Omega was keeping up easy. 

They covered ground effortlessly, easily, for half an hour, an hour, longer. The horses were no longer running hellbent for leather, but they kept a good clip going and every now and then, the Marshal would spur his pinto and they’d speed up for a while. It just took a touch of Dean’s heels to the side of Impala and she’d dig up some giddy-up from deep inside of her and match the speed of the Pinto again. Never should have let Dad sell this horse, Dean thought. This horse would give her everything for him.

The terrain had changed, almost abruptly, from the other side of the river. Dean could see that it was drier, browner as soon they rose rose out of the trees growing by the river. Such stands of trees as grew were scrubby loblolly pines. The forage for cattle wouldn’t be nearly so good here, he thought. It would be acceptable. You could eek out a living here, he thought, but it wouldn’t be near as easy as it was back home at the ranch. The terrain was also rising. The rolling hills of the river valley turned into honest foothills and suddenly, he could see the mountain range, dusky blue in the far distance, the ground between them a patchwork of faded green, gold and even brown. 

The Marshal kept riding hard, looking back every now and then as if to see if he’d dropped Dean behind him, until finally, a small group of buildings appeared, sprouting off the trail ahead. There were few enough of them you could hardly call it a town, but it was a settlement of some kind, more than just a family farm or ranch. It was a trading post, maybe? When that came in sight, Novak reined his Pinto hard, turned him and stopped dead in the trail so he was facing Dean. His brows were furrowed, his face thunderous. He was furious that he had not lost his tail. The Pinto danced a little, not ready to give up his run yet. He blew a big breath, tail agitated and swishing.

“This is the Road House,” Novak said. “It’s run by Ellen and her daughter. I will stop here and seek intelligence about my quarry. Someone here will be able to escort you back to the ferry.”

“I’m not going back,” Dean said. “I told you before. You being here is to make it all legal like, but I’m getting my man myself.”

“An Omega out here is...”

“No more vulnerable than any other man when he’s backed up with cold iron, Marshal,” Dean said. He slid the serape aside and revealed the holstered Colt. He’d been lucky enough to find one the right size to strap the Colt to his waist, the long barrel coming down to his thigh when he stood. “Non Timbeo Mala” was etched on that dark metal. I will fear no evil. Dean thought of the Bible verse. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. Those other sons of bitches walking through this valley better watch out for Dean Winchester if they thought they were going to take a bite out of him. 

“Do you even know how to shoot that thing?” Novak asked. “Do you know what that is? That monster has far more power and kickback than you imagine. Have you even shot it off yet?”

“I’ve shot it,” Dean said. “I’ve been shooting since I was a pup.”

He didn’t tell how Dad had put the first gun into his hands on the ranch when he was six. Just a small caliber rifle for plinking old cans off the fence and hunting critters around the place. Then, as he got older, a larger caliber rifle with more stopping power for the kind of things that lurked around at night, werewolves and the like. Mostly those things were interested in getting an easy meal from the herd, but there were things that would eat a man sometimes if they thought he was an easy target. You had to be prepared. 

The Marshal didn’t have to know that John Winchester hadn’t allowed his Omega son to touch the Colt. Dean figured that John didn’t really get an opinion on it now. Dean had used the Colt before, snuck off to the far corners of their property to give it a try. It had pretty much made the can he’d shot off a fence post into shrapnel. There was probably nothing human it would not stop, and few things that were not human to boot.

“That gun. You know it’s not a toy,” Novak said. “It’s special.”

“I know what the Colt is,” Dean snapped. “This one was smithed by Samuel Colt himself. Both my Dad and my Ma come from long lines of hunter families. They just settled down to have a family.”

“From the Winchester family?”

“The same. My Ma is a Colt by way of the Campbell’s,” Dean said. Castiel seemed mildly impressed, for the moment at least.

“You will demonstrate before I trust that you can handle it. You ride well. I will look through your packs and determine if you equipped yourself properly. If you can handle that firearm and if you are prepared for the ride, you may continue with me.”

“Well, ain’t that kind of you to concede,” Dean snapped. “We seem to have a fundamental failure to communicate here, Marshal. I’m not heading out with you. You’re heading out with me. Perhaps I ought to rummage through your kit and see if I think you’re ready for a long, hard ride.”


	6. Chapter 6

The Marshal’s eyes widened a little and then he swallowed hard. Before Dean could get another word out, the man turned his Pinto around and set out on the last stretch to the trading post. 

“We’d best be moving along then,” Castiel said from up ahead, no longer protesting Dean’s presence but notably not offering an apology. Well, Dean knew better than to hold his breath waiting for an apology from an Alpha even when the Alpha in question had been proven indisputably wrong.

Dean caught up to him quickly, riding side by side with him for the moment. “I thought settlements weren’t allowed in the Territories,” he said. 

“A few small ones, like the Roadhouse, are tolerated, so long as they’re useful and respectful. Much like the presence of the Marshals is tolerated, so long as we are only here to retrieve our own fugitives,” Novak said, eye straight ahead to the rapidly approaching buildings. “We walk lightly here and with respect.”

They walked their horses to a water trough. A young child, no older than Dean was when he’d started working on the ranch, stood there. The pup had dark brown hair, long, but even so, Dean couldn’t tell if the pup was boy or girl, Alpha, Beta or Omega. Novak flipped the child a silver coin that seemed to be far too much money for the task and said, “The horses have had a hard ride. See that they’re well watered and have a chance to rest. We’ll be heading out before long, not spending the night. Is your father around?”

“Yeah, he’s out and about,” the pup said, then turned to the horses, taking the reins of the pinto first, but then looking at Impala with something like awe. Obviously a pup that knew a good horse. “Oh, this one is pretty. She for sale?”

“No,” Dean said, a little more curtly than he meant, but to be fair, he’d only just gotten Impala back after he thought he’d lost her forever. Should never have Dad let take her away. He should have fought harder to keep her.

The pup added, “My father’s a trader. He’d give you good cash money for her.”

“She’s not for sale,” Dean said, firmly. “I just sold a string of horses just as quality to Crowley at Fort Smith if your father wants to buy, but Impala is my horse.”

The pup spit to the side. Probably a little boy then. Dean hadn’t yet met a little girl, no matter how much of a tomboy, who would spit like that. “Feh. No one ruins a good horse faster than Crowley. Won’t deal with him.”

“You’re not wrong about him, but he’s had them less than a week. They won’t be ruined yet,” Dean said. “I don’t like dealing with him, but my Dad always did.”

Still, the pup snorted, so Dean turned and hustled to catch up to Novak as he approached the front of the biggest building in the little settlement. It was a cabin of sorts, built from long skinny logs, tall trees that had been felled when they were hardly thinker than saplings and not had their bark peeled off, the chinks filled with mud, moss and just about whatever else came to hand. This was not the cabin of a successful trading post, but he tried to keep an open mind. Inside was well stocked though with food stuffs, even packaged goods, as well as useful domestic stuff like frying pans and Dutch ovens and wool blankets. 

A woman dressed in man’s clothes stood behind the counter. Her long hair was pulled back tight and practical like any housewife’s would be though. She smiled at them tightly, as if not best pleased to see Novak, but was determined to keep a good face on it. 

“Well now, who is this pretty little Omega?” She asked. “I didn’t know you intended to take a bride, Cas? He seems a little young to be mating.”

“He is the thorn in my side, not my mate to be,” Novak said. “And yes, he is too young for that. Practically a child still.”

Cas? Then Dean remembered his introduction to the man yesterday. His first name was the somewhat unlikely moniker of Castiel. Folks around Fort Smith went in not just for Biblical names, but for the names of Angels and demons as well, as revealed in the Shurley Gospels, which were said to be the genuine word of God. Dean didn’t buy that, not for a minute, but having them as part of Scripture sure spiced up the pick of names used. He was glad his mother and father had gone in for simple, family names like Sam and Dean. 

“I’m his employer. I hired him to find the man that shot my father,” Dean said, hoping this wasn’t one of those communities where Omegas were expected not to speak until spoken to, especially the young, unmated ones. You never knew with these small settlements, even if the next town over was relatively free for an Omega. Luckily, the woman didn’t seem to find him too forward or at least she knew better than to act like she did.

“Well, if anyone can, it’ll be Cas,” the woman said. “Toughest Marshal I’ve known and I’ve seen many come through here.”

“Word is, he’s joined up with the Devils,” Novak said. “I don’t suppose.”

“You suppose about right,” the woman said. “I don’t.”

“I understand you must remain discreet and neutral to survive,” Castiel said to the woman. It became clear. She wouldn’t survive without the fugitives stopping and buying their supplies on their way out past the border. She held secrets, sold to fugitive and federal is if they were the same. Probably wouldn’t give up their secrets to God himself.

Cas sighed. “I don’t suppose Ishim is to be found.”

“You sure you want to do that, Cas?” Ellen said. “He wasn’t exactly best pleased to see you last time.”

“He’s had time to get over his grudge,” Novak said. 

“Hold’s a grudge a pretty long time, in my experience, but if you’re going to be foolish. Last I heard, he was following some one down to the Mission in San Xavier, trying to serve a writ.”

“No doubt he’s hunting down Lily Sunder again. We don’t have time for an excursion into Mexico,” Novak muttered. “I’ll have to see if I can find other information.”

Then, they got down to real business. Castiel bought enough dried goods to carry them through two or three weeks, including a big bag of pre-made corn dodgers, big old lumps of cornmeal batter, fried up and left to cool. They’d stay good enough without spoiling for a while. Dean just about groaned. He’d eaten plenty of them on the trail with the cattle before. It was quick food for when you couldn’t take the time to build a fire. It would keep a man alive but it was not the tastiest thing.

Castiel picked up a small rifle, just a twenty-two, like any pup was taught to shoot with and tossed it to Dean. It was an old Henry lever-action .22, close enough to one he had at home that he could probably load, fire it, and reload, all in his sleep. Even his little brother Adam could handle something like that. Castiel handed it to Dean, still in its holster.

“I’m armed already,” Dean said, defensively, certainly not wanting to be reduced to a critter gun. 

“It’s a more practical weapon for our purposes,” Novak said. “And more suitable for you. You can supplement our dinner with rabbits and groundhogs.”

“Oh, I see, just because I’m the Omega, I’m the one responsible for dinner. Not happening.”

“I already have such a rifle with me,” Castiel said. “And two sets of eyes will make the hunt more successful.”

“Fine,” Dean grumbled. He’d rather have had the .22 he had at home rather than this one of doubtful provenance and aim, but Castiel had a point about the hunting. No doubt, if he wanted to eat some kind of meat beyond salt pork over the next couple of weeks, they would have to be the ones to provide it, which no doubt meant Dean would have to be the one. 

“Two boxes ordinary, one box silver bullets, please, Ellen. Just in case,” Castiel said. Dean didn’t argue with that. Werewolves and other stranger things had come with the European settlers, hiding among them. They weren’t supposed to be in the Territories either, but the border didn’t stop them. Ellen stacked the requested ammunition on the counter without a word. 

“Good,” Castiel said. “I think that’s everything. Now, pay the woman, Dean.”

“It’s your supplies.”

“I believe you promised you would cover expenses,” Castiel said, then walked out of the trading post, his boots echoing with each step on the rough wooden floor, the metal of his spurs jangling softly.

Dean shrugged. He supposed that was fair enough. He turned to deal with Ellen. He went over the purchase with Ellen and while he didn’t exactly haggle like some housewife, he could see where she was padding the bill a little, as if she expected the Alpha would just look right past it. Finally, he settled up with her. His money pouch was now a little thinner than he’d thought it would be, but it was worth it. Money, that was easy enough to make more of, but getting the man that killed his father? That was priceless. He carried his purchases, including the new rifle, out to the hitching post where they’d left the horses.

He divided the goods between his own saddle bags and the Marshal’s, putting more of the heavy goods in the Marshal’s bags. The Pinto was a bigger, sturdier horse than Impala and the Marshal’s bags were emptier anyway. Dean lashed the sheathe with the rifle to his own saddle where he’d be able to reach it easy while on the go, so he could plink off a rabbit, should he see one.

Only as he was finishing up did Castiel return from wherever it was he’d buggered off to, avoiding the work. He checked Dean’s packing though, almost obsessively, but seemed to find nothing he could object to. His handsome face was still set hard in a foul temper. 

“You don’t wear spurs,” was all he said after checking out their gear. 

“Never needed to. Especially not with Impala here,” Dean said, stepping up in the stirrup, mounting Impala. She danced a little, eager to get moving again. It wasn’t that he objected to them so much. The Marshal had used his spurs correctly, not to hurt the Pinto, but just the lightest of touches to the horse’s sides. The rowels were well blunted, not at all pointed. But Dean took it as a point of pride that he didn’t need them to communicate with a horse.

“She’s obviously a sensitive, intelligent animal,” Castiel said. “We aren’t all so lucky to ride a horse like her.”

“Your horse got a name?” Dean asked, realizing he’d never heard the man use one. 

“I just call him Cabrón if I need to,” Castiel said. “I found it fitting.”

Dean thought he might be using the Spanish word to mean “dumbass”, as it did sometimes, but that seemed a little unkind for the placid, hearty animal. Of course, you could sometimes mistake a lazy, dull nature in a horse for the gentleness Dean thought he saw. Dean liked the big pinto and didn’t think he was slow or dumb.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do people like short, more frequent chapter updates? Let me know. 
> 
> Comments and kudos highly appreciated. Not as many people seem to be reading this one for some reason, which is a little discouraging.


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